Page 31 of The Locked Ward

Rage sweeps across Josh’s face as he realizes he’s been caught.

He curses at Patty, spittle flying from his lips as the takedown team descends.

You cower behind the shower curtain, shivering, as Josh hurls himself through the doorway, his fists flying.

You hear a violent scuffle and voices shouting, and for one terrifying moment, you wonder if Josh has somehow achieved superhuman strength and is winning the fight. If he’ll be coming for you next.

Then it grows quiet.

You wait, holding your breath, water beating down on your back.

A huge aide passes in front of the open bathroom door, removing the plastic gloves he must have put on before injecting Josh with the syringes.

A patient’s high-pitched voice asks, “Why was Josh so angry?”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” someone replies. “Everything’s fine now.”

You’re still trying to catch your breath when the nurse who gave you the little cup of soap enters the room.

“All set?” she asks, handing you the towel. Her tone is brisk and matter-of-fact. As if nothing has happened.

But she’s looking down at the floor, like she’s guilty of something.

Maybe she walked away to take a phone call or go to the bathroom when she was supposed to be monitoring you. You can’t bear to think of what would’ve happened if not for Patty.

“I’ll wait outside while you dry off and change,” the nurse says. “Your clean outfit is on the sink, and I’ll take away your dirty things.”

She isn’t going to acknowledge what almost happened. For her, it’s a minor crisis at work. For you, it has stripped away any final illusion that you might be safe here.

You quickly rub the rough towel over your skin and pull on the scrub pants and hospital gown as fast as you can. You’re shaking, but not from cold.

“Would you like to rest in your room, or maybe do some art?” the nurse asks.

You want to be alone, to curl up in bed and shake, but what if Josh comes around again? It would be safer to try to find Patty and stay near her.

You walk toward the art room, trying to tamp down the turmoil swelling inside you.

You pass the bald patient doing laps, and a woman having an argument with a nurse’s aide about needing to go to Morocco right now.

The pressure inside you feels unbearable; if it doesn’t find release soon, you’ll explode.

If you opened your mouth, you’re half certain a stream of acrid smoke would tunnel out.

But no one acts any differently toward you. The bald man who always does laps passes you again, smiling his odd half smile. Behind the plexiglass shield, the staff are talking and working on computers.

Then a nurse looks up from behind the plexiglass and spots you. She sets down the chart she’s holding and exits the locked area. Nurses on this floor never carry anything when they move among the patients. No charts, pens, cups of hot coffee, or cell phones.

She steps in front of you, halting your path toward the art area. Maybe it’s time to break down, to plead not guilty and take your chances in the system. But your mother will testify against you. So will others. You won’t have a chance.

The nurse says, “I have a message for you from Mandy. She’s on her way to see you.”

You almost fall to the ground in relief.

You shuffle away before the nurse can detect the change in your affect.

You no longer have a twenty-four-hour watcher. You can try to get a message to Mandy without fear of it being intercepted and used against you. There will be cameras, of course, but the staff aren’t lip-readers. Even so, you’ll need to be very careful. Plan your words painstakingly.

Your sister is coming.

This changes everything.